Author Archives: F Dot Leonora

Wicked Wednesday #103 — Consider(ing)

Eliza considered Fiona to be the most sophisticated person she had ever met. After they met Oscar and revisited Fiona’s declaration of love, Fiona never repeated what she said that night.
She’d told Fiona she loved her, and Fiona said not the way she loved Oscar in a drunken haze.
The thought never occurred to Eliza. When she met him, she went with him because she felt pressure. The urge to be perfect, which she was not. She had not expected to meet him in Paris, and Shanghai proved that she had far deeper emotions than she had suspected.
Fiona never mentioned it again, and Eliza tried not to think about it.
So of course it became all she thought about.
The gallery was decorated gloriously for the exhibition, there was flowing liquor as per usual. Fiona schmoozed with the inebriated and wealthy clientele who could buy whatever they saw.
Eliza wandered on her own, letting Fiona work. She always looked at Fiona’s work with admiration, but now she saw things that she had never seen before.
She paused by a ubiquitous untitled photograph in which Fiona looked away from the camera, but her body was completely exposed. Eliza had never acknowledged the sexuality in the photos. Fiona was beautiful, and there were a myriad of men and women around her. No one Fiona ever seemed attached to.
Until she made her declaration a few days ago.
“What do you see?’
Eliza was afraid to turn around and look at Oscar. This was the abandoned corner leading to the stairs that she had thought about in the bar in the other night because they could not have sex. She imagined they could tonight in a stairwell like this. The sound of his voice, and the closeness of his body made her wet.
“I see so much more in her photographs than I did…This particular series has a rawness to it…”
Eliza faced him and the raw desire on his face. She considered what would happen if she put her hand on the door to the stairs. The possibilities she would expose with that simple gesture. She faced the photograph again, Fiona’s body open but tight with unexplored desire.
Eliza wanted to explore.
His hand covered hers on the doorknob when she touched it, and moving as one they opened the door.
The darkness and coolness of the stairwell evaporated, as their bodies pressed together. Their nearness felt like sex. Every part of him that touched her, even his suit jacket and tie sent a shock between her legs. She closed her eyes with longing, realizing fantasy is always better than the reality. They could not push it any further here.
“Fiona said…” She said suddenly and stopped. She did not want to go on because if she said the rest to him, she would be in love with him and she could not commit to that.
Her committment was with Rafe.
She thought about it more now that she was thinking so much about loving Oscar. The decision to marry Rafe had not been one she had had to think about. She had known.
Now she knew something else.
“What?” Oscar asked.
His breathing was labored. She knew that being so close to each other was not the way she should be with him, considering what she was about to say.
“She said I loved you.”
“Do you?”
Eliza buried her face in her hands.
“I’m engaged.”
“Do you?”
She studied his face through the cage of her fingers, considered what her answer would mean and how it would change things.
His eyes paralleled hers.
“Do you love anyone?” he questioned her with almost scorn.
She pounded at his chest, the soft warmth she felt flared up into an intense heat as she pounded and he stood impassive.
“How could I love you!” she spat, her hands hot from pounding his chest and she stopped to cover her damp face with them.
“The same way I could love you.”
She peeked at him through her splayed fingers and considered what he said.
Their indirect confessions were enough. Oscar took her hands and kissed them. Kissed her tremoring mouth, and her cheek that pulsed with emotion.
He loved her. She cared less about what a mess she was, damp made up face in a stairwell where she still could not have sex with him.
He loved her.
That was the brightest picture in her mind, brighter than any of Fiona’s photographs that night even the one in the sun…

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photo courtesy of wiki commons

Wicked Wednesday #102 — Going Dutch

Eliza focused and saw Fiona, she dropped her hands from Oscar’s chest and faced the bar.
“I just saw Fiona, and I am not sure if she saw me.”
“And you are scared to be caught with me?” Oscar questioned looking at the bar, and not at her.
She stared at his hands, thickly veined and soft, grabbed one.
“I am not afraid of anything,” she said getting up, leading him so he followed her over to Fiona’s table.
Fiona gave her a deadpan expression, but her expression and eyes shifted on Oscar.
“I guess all of the Americans are here, I met my friend Oscar here as well.” Eliza added lightly, but cautiously. “Is it okay if we sit with you?”
With a shrug that indicated it was okay, Eliza and Oscar sat down.
“Oscar, this is my sister-in-law Fiona.”
“Not yet,” Fiona stated, extending her hand to Oscar.
“Practically,” Eliza answered a little breathless, and deflated between the legs. She knew that she was not going to be able to sleep with Oscar that night. She had been more than ready, almost at the bar even, but now there was no chance. A little more than envious of Fiona’s handshake with him, she closed her eyes thinking about the texture of his skin.
She loved being able to introduce him, letting him know he meant something to her and she figured that if she did not hide him, it would not look conspicuous to Fiona.
Oscar ordered drinks, and Eliza was thankful for Fiona’s impeccable manners. Eliza knew she would not create a scene in front of a stranger, so she exploited it.
“Fiona is a gifted photographer. She just had a show in New York, and now she is going to have a show in Shanghai.”
“Fiona Morgan? I just saw your show in New York, and I saw a write-up about the Shanghai show. I recognized your Francesca Woodman like photo in the collage,” Oscar said.
“You must have liked it if you could tell which one it was in the group!” Fiona smiled.
Eliza breathed an inner sigh of relief. Fiona was very proud of her work, and was going to love talking to Oscar about herself as an artist. She was surprised at Oscar’s knowledge of art, even more so that he dabbled in photography.
“You have to come to the opening in a few days!” Fiona declared with a smile that lilted as she looked at Eliza. “Eliza must bring you.”
“I don’t have any of Oscar’s information,” Eliza lied, between her legs making her shift with discomfort because she knew when she was going to be able to see him again. In a gallery there would be a way for her to touch his skin, to have his hands she studied on her again.
“I can give it to you!” he smiled.
She knew what he meant above her waist, but below her waist felt like she wanted to wipe at the hot moisture between her legs.
“Of course,” she said.
Eliza insisted they go Dutch when the bill came, but Oscar ignored her entirely. He stood up to leave, and she feared she would come if he hugged her.
He hugged Fiona first, and then her. She just hid her gasp in a quick kiss on his cheek because she did indeed almost come. She hoped Fiona would think it was the effect of the alcohol.
When he left she did not look after him, his scent and touch clung to her like tapestry even after he was gone.
Fiona had been drinking a lot, more than usual.
“Eliza, I know it was wrong what I said but I was in bed with you, and I lost control for a moment. I am sorry, I need time to forgive myself for losing control. You know I never do,” she slurred softly.
Eliza sat next to her, and Fiona put her head on her shoulder.
“I do love you Fi, just not the way…”
Fiona kissed the nape of her neck, and maybe it was how she was feeling already but it felt excessively nice. She closed her eyes.
“Not the way you love Oscar, I see.”
Eliza became rigid, the mention of his name and her crossed legs squeezed tight made her come, but she felt no release.

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photo by f dot leonora

Wicked Wednesday #101 — A Chance

“You know you are the daughter they always wanted.”

Eliza’s eyes were wide from what Fiona said, and the gorgeous view that she had of Shanghai from the window. It was hard for Eliza to hear that even though she knew it was true, out of Fiona’s mouth.

“Not Mom, Dad or Rafe suggested that I should not come here. Frankly that is fine, because I am not planning on going back to New York.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, and you can be the bearer of the good news. I am staying here.”

Fiona sat calm in a lotus pose on the bed opposite her.

“I cannot tell them that.”

“You will, you will, because I am not going back.”

“Why can’t you go back Fi? Everyone who loves you is there. What is here for you in Shanghai?”

Fiona shook her head, bit her bottom lip and looked out of the huge window from the bed.

Eliza leaned forward and touched Fiona’s leg. The darkness and moisture in Fiona’s eyes when she touched her was not something she expected. She pulled her hand away.

“I can’t go back because the person I am in love with is in love with someone else.”

“You are going to let your love for someone make you leave everything that you know?

The words rushed out of her mouth, but Eliza realized she was in Shanghai because she ached for a man that was not the man she was going to marry. How many times had she tried to justify to herself that it was just a fling? But she was in Shanghai for Oscar, and she was advising Fiona.

“I cannot be there when you get married…”
“What does the wedding have to do with anything?”

Eliza looked at Fiona’s watery eyes, and watched her bite her lip even more. Her feelings of empathy were so deep, her eyes teared up as well.

“Eliza, I love about you that you are so naive. You think the world is a beautiful place, and you think everything in your world is beautiful. My parents love you, my brother loves you and I love you.”

“I love you too, Fi.”
Fiona placed her hand on Eliza the same way Eliza had placed her hand on her thigh, but slightly higher.

And then higher.

They looked at each other.

“How can I be in New York when you marry Rafe when I love you Eliza?”

Eliza shook her head.

“This is the biggest chance I have ever taken in my life coming to Shanghai alone with you.” Fiona took Eliza’s hand in hers. “This is my big chance, and I am just going to have it and tell you I love you. I loved you since Rafe brought you home. I loved you and wanted you, and had to pretend all this time. I thought maybe you would break up. No. Solid. I cannot be there for the wedding.”

Eliza looked at Fiona’s hand shaking on her thigh, and squeezed hers tight over it.

“Fiona, I never knew, and I’m sorry. I am sorry that you are in so much pain. But you have to come home with me…”

“I cannot be at that wedding.”

Fiona pulled her hand from Eliza’s, and got up from the bed to stand by the huge window which she seemed to drown in. Eliza followed her to the window. She wanted to say something to Fiona, but did not know what to say.

When Fiona turned around, they looked at each other for a long time.

“I have to go to meet with a gallery owner here. She speaks English, so there is no need for you to come with me. Really Eliza, there is no reason for you to even be here anymore if you do not want to be.”
Eliza was speechless as Fiona walked out of the apartment.

Her engagement to Rafe was supposed to be the thing that defined her. She was going to be his wife. Then Oscar defined her, she was his lover. Now Fiona was defined her, she was her unrequited love.

She stood still for a moment trying to take in everything, trying to be.

And then like Pavlov’s dog, a ping from her phone made her jump.

She picked up her phone, and typed furiously. Without thinking, and still not sure about getting around in Shanghai, she got into a cab with her light knowledge of the language.

She arrived at a bar with seats that looked like fire-filled lanterns. Oscar was there waiting for her, her heart beat so loud she heard it pounding in her ears. She almost ran to him, but stopped herself. He had never seen her be anything but calm and collected her.

She slowly sashayed toward him, and he looked down at her.

“Oscar,” she could finally say, and not just think or say softly aloud to herself.

He caressed her cheek.

“What is wrong?”

The way he looked at her, searching for what she had hoped to hide made her tear up.

He wiped the first tear that fell, and kissed her where it landed above her cheek.

It all rushed out of her mouth, as she heaved more than cried. She looked down when she was done, and listened to Oscar order drinks.

“You speak the language too?”

He nodded, and asked,

“What are you going to do?”

Eliza sighed heavily, her hand on his hand on her thigh pressing into it for support.

Her mind murmured Oscar’s name over and over again, as she became tearful again and the fire-colored seats looked like fire in earnest around them.

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shanghai photo via wikipedia

paris as muse

If I had to write this post as a detailed report of every photographer I saw and what they were trying to do with their work at this exhibition, I would not do it. I did not like doing that in grade school, and I certainly would not write for pleasure that way. Suffice to say that, I went to the Met today to see their Paris As Muse exhibition, and it served me well…

Paris always inspires me, inspiring me for years before I even visited. Once I went, it seeped into me, became part of me. To define how and why, I am not that eloquent. As soon as I became aware of this exhibition (which is closing this Sunday), I knew I had to go. Sadly pictures were not permitted. The photographs were filled with shadowy people, but mostly architecture and streets. There were a lot of Brassais, who I have been obsessed with forever. He captured the dark side of Paris, and made it look bright. A Man Ray photograph of Meret Oppenheimer was in the collection as well.

Some of the photographers were connected with surrealism, which is my favorite movement in modern art. Like Brassai, it captures a dark side of art. It has been tagged often as being misogynistic, but this does not hinder my appreciation of the style. It was this ode to surrealism, combined with the body of forty photographs that comprised Paris As Muse that ended my writer’s block.

I have a short story I am supposed to write, but it was not materializing. I realized after the idea came to me tonight, that I was afraid of settling. Afraid of settling for an idea. Subconsciously I knew what I wanted, but nothing that I was coming up with was it. All my ideas seemed like a caricature of what I really wanted to write, but now I have got it.

All that is left to do is write it, it which of course will be based in Paris…

Wicked Wednesday #100 — Full Circle

Eliza was happy that she was going to meet Rafe at his sister’s gallery opening. Meeting him there, she could blame her state of mind on jetlag and not having eaten. Quickly leaving her luggage at the coat check, she had barely walked into the space before she was handed a glass of champagne she gladly accepted.

“Eliza!”

Fiona rushed to hug her. Eliza enjoyed the genuine warmth from her sister-in-law-to-be. Fiona was the artist her parents had not expected to have in the family, and the reason why they and Rafe tried to mold Eliza into the daughter they had really wanted.

She was perfect by their standards and Rafe’s.

Her husband-to-be stood behind his sister, his appraisal of her was appreciative and she felt placated. Her back in New York dress was one Rafe had selected himself. As soon as Fiona let her go, Rafe moved forward, caressed her hip and took her in his arms.

“I missed you,” he breathed behind her ear. She smiled more so because she was ticklish there as opposed to returning the sentiment.

She was not unhappy to see Rafe, but it was not as easy this time to leave Oscar…

Oscar, she whispered his name over and over in her head since she learned it, saying it to herself when she thought about him which was often.

Paris had been Oscar and Eliza. Oscar was in Shanghai now without her, and she was in New York with Rafe. She looked up at Rafe, into his eyes that studied her as if he was making sure there was nothing different about her. He closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead. Later when they were alone, she knew that the darkness in those eyes was going to be her very sensuous reality and she was very eager for that. To learn him again, her hands pressed to the expanse of his wide chest before she buried her face there. His lips were on the top of her head, as he caressed her face and pushed her hair away from her cheek.

Her eyes were glazed as she stared at the Francesca Woodmanesque photos that Fiona had filled the gallery with. It was clear that Woodman was an influence on her, Fiona’s work was a happier expression of that style. Champagne and delicacies flowed about them, as they strolled through the gallery.

“Fiona, this is gorgeous,” Eliza said, still in Rafe’s embrace.

“You always know the right thing to say,” Rafe whispered to her after his sister walked away.

The sepia photos were lovely, and Fiona was young, fearless and not afraid to use her body as an instrument.

Eliza wished that she had that kind of confidence.

Rafe’s parents appeared around a gallery corner and kissed her before they kissed their own daughter. Eliza had that kind of relationship with his parents. She had now come full circle from her accidental transgression.

This was where she belonged.

“How was Paris?” Rafe’s mother asked her beaming.

“Paris is Paris!” she exclaimed brightly, as Rafe squeezed her.

“It was more lovely while you were there,” he said.

She closed her eyes as Rafe kissed the tip of her nose. His mother continued beaming,

“You lovebirds! Let’s go have dinner, we have reservations close by…”

Dinner was pleasant talk about Paris reinvented by Eliza without mention of Oscar. Fiona was silent all throughout, having expressed dismay at her show.

“It was a lovely show Fiona, I am not sure why you are so miserable,” her mother said to her.

“I need inspiration Mother. Everything I am doing seems so homogeneous…”

“So you are saying you have come full circle with your art?” her father asked.

“You want to travel again?” Rafe asked with weak patience for his younger sister.

Fiona played with the gooey chocolate cake she had ordered, not looking at anyone at the table.

“I have only really ever gotten grants to work in Europe. There is a grant I could get in Shanghai…Eliza, you speak some Mandarin don’t you?’

Eliza choked.

“Yes, I can write a bit too.”
“You said you wanted to go somewhere exciting for your next vacation. Maybe if Rafe will loan you to me, we could go to Shanghai I want to visit anyway. I have a friend there who is an artist, and the scene there is kind of ambitious and if one of us speaks the language…”

“Of course Rafe will loan Eliza to you Fiona,” Rafe’s mother eyed Rafe and Eliza strongly which Fiona could not see because she was sitting next to her.

Rafe and Eliza were silent. She was going to be the obedient faux daughter, and go to Shanghai with Fiona.

Oscar, she almost said out loud, but caught herself as she exhaled a whoosh of air to disguise the sound of his name.

Home later with Rafe, he took off his tie.

“This would be the second place that I cannot come with you. Paris, now Shanghai…”

He held his tie, and opened his shirt.

“I can still say no,” she said walking over to him, putting her hands on his chest.

She wanted him to tell her no, wanted him to tell her not to go. She would have listened.

His dark eyes appraised her.

“I cannot disappoint my parents, they will not let Fiona go without you, and that means Fiona will go however she has to. We are a family, sometimes we have to make sacrifices…”

She nodded, looking down, he raised her chin so she looked up at him and kissed her.

“She can borrow you, but you are mine. My perfect girl…”
Eliza looked up at the cracks on the ceiling, moaning as he kissed her and again on a deep whoosh of exhaled breath, she hid the name she almost moaned and thought of Shanghai…

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photo via wikipedia

Paris

New York is the perfect city to live in if you are going to travel the world, it is incomparable to any place else that I have been. I feel proud and happy when it is my destination after a trip somewhere. My love for New York was completely full and undivided…

…until I went to Paris.

I wanted to go to Paris since I was a little girl, doesn’t everyone? I wanted to go, was always planning for the potential trip and finally I went last year after Eroticon 2013. London was another desired destination, but there was no way I was going to be that close to Paris and not go! After the conference, I hurried to bed for an early train to take me to Paris. In my taxi from Gare Nord, with my charming driver who knew very little English, my eyes were so wide. I kept expecting to hear accordions in the background (when I did on a train I would have tipped the accordionist if I had change).

I was afraid to go to Paris in a way, because I was so in love with it already I was afraid the reality could not live up to that sentiment. The first thing I discovered was that it is a real city, not a museum. People live there, and I tried to be very respectful of that even though I was gawking at everything I saw. Paris is smaller than New York City. As weird as it sounds as a native New Yorker, I hate crowds. I cannot imagine living in a very small town, but sometimes New York is overwhelming. Paris meanwhile is not empty, but you can walk down a street by yourself and hear yourself as well.

On every corner there was a cafe, restaurant, chocolate store or art museum. The things I live for…Sadly there are a lot of bookstores too, but my French is very light. I know how to say perfunctory things, but cannot elaborate the way I do well…here!

I stayed at the same hotel for two separate trips to Paris, and I am planning to stay there for the third trip as well. I love the arrondissement where I have stayed, which is bad-mouthed in all of the guidebooks and good! I want it to stay that way. I have barely eaten outside of the neighborhood, and the last time made friends with the bartenders who served me free snacks. There is a cheese store across the street from the hotel, and I still dream of the cheese I bought there…

Paris is for me a lovely place to exist and be hidden at the same time. As a visitor who is not fluent in the language, I am not an active part of the scene so I can be a voyeur. I enjoy it intensely because Paris is beautiful. On my second trip, I started to see how I could walk from place to place instead of taking the Metro. I started to feel like I was getting the hang of things.

Of course, the erotica editor and writer in me had to go to the Musee de l’Erotisme. I went to Pigalle on a rainy Saturday, down the block from the museum is the Moulin Rouge–with Starbucks across the street! You are not allowed to take pictures there, but my best memory was on the third floor I think, with a wall that told the history of prostitution in Paris. I walked that whole floor so intrigued, reading everything that was written.

Someone asked me why was I going to Paris again, and I answered because it is Paris! I was incredulous that a person could ask such a thing. The only thing about Paris that is a challenge for me is the language barrier, but someday it will not be a barrier either. I am a communicator, I cannot let it be a barrier…

Wicked Wednesday Prompt #99 — Safe Sex

Eliza guessed she dozed off, there was a secret smile inside her when she woke because they had not had to leave as quickly as they had the first time so that she could return to Rafe. She rolled onto her side and relished when he squeezed her simply because he felt her move, easily she maneuvered from under him and out of the bed. On the dresser, she pulled a tissue from its dispenser and moved the used condom that was there. She walked into the bathroom, the cool tiles underneath her feet startling her from the still warm feeling from being with him again.

Oddly she removed the condom from the tissue and looked at it for a moment. Her fingers French manicured as a joke because she was going to Paris, with the thinnest lines of white because she just started to grow her fingernails a few weeks before. She had been a diligent nail biter. Those manicured fingernails caressed the used condom which she tied in a knot. The evidence of what she had done with him, this man who had wrecked her inside even when she did not believe she was ever going to see him again.

One thing that she cared about in this whole affair was that she was safe about it. Rafe deserved that much from her, if nothing else. She knew what Rafe tasted like, what he felt like inside her, bare and warm. She liked it, she had liked everything she thought…

Dumping the condom into the wastebasket, she washed her hands then sat on the toilet and was distracted by sensation of urinating that made her want to have sex all over again. She wondered what exactly was she doing? Why had she done this again when it had wrecked her? Now Paris was not going to be about business, it was going to be about pleasure. Pure pleasure no matter what happened when they walked out of this hotel room, and he walked out of her life for a second time.

Flushing the toilet, and hopefully her emotions, she washed her hands again and walked back into the bedroom. He was lying on his back with one leg up and looked at her.

“Did you bring your restlessness to Paris, cherie?”

Walking as if she was fully clothed at one of her meetings, she crossed her arms and flexed her foot.

“Business brought me to Paris. Was that a question?”

“What is this Jeopardy? Yes, it was a question.”

“I thought there were no questions, no guilt, no rings…”

Her ring was still on.

“I have to know about you now, because I am going to need to know who you are in case you show up in the next city I am in.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said sitting on the edge of the bed. “This was an aventure.”

He pulled her close to him.

“You speak a lot of French don’t you?”
He kissed her and she was sure she was flowed over his body like a waterfall, her sharp words betrayed by her body.

“I have cocktails tonight with some clients, I have to go,” She pulled away slightly.

He released her.

“I have something tonight as well, what are you doing after?”

Eliza studied his face and could not decipher what he was about. What he wanted.

“Is your fiance here?” he continued to question.

She shook her head.

“Are you alone?” she asked him, now that questions were allowed.

He nodded, as he pulled her close to kiss her again. She did not resist, even though she did have to go. When they pulled away, she looked into his eyes posing a question and answering his at the same time.

Cocktails later were a blur, she kept looking at her watch and wondering if it was almost time to return to him. She had two drinks and sipped them laboriously as one of the men at the table tried to flirt with her furiously and she did not want to end up in the mist of another aventure. It seemed that it was true that ever since she had gotten engaged more men seemed to notice her.

Slightly tipsy, she walked out of the restaurant and hailed a cab for the first time in Paris. Delivered to her hotel, because she had a meeting in the morning, she went up to her room and he was already there. His mouth tasted of scotch, and she sucked on his lip to get all the taste of it.

“So how was your meeting Eliza?”

“How do you know my name?”

He pointed the suitcase in the corner with her name tag on it.

Eliza shrugged.

The telephone rang and she ran to it, kicking off her heels.

“Rafe?”

Her conversation with Rafe was as hushed as she could make it, as he walked about the room pretending to be distracted.

“I love you too,” she whispered and then hung up the phone. “You do not have to pretend to be distracted, the conversation is over.”
He turned around,

She rushed over to him, placed her hand on his chest.

“What is your name?”

“Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name…”

His smile was broad as he quoted the Rolling Stones’ song lyrics.

“You are the devil,” she concurred. “You are…”

She closed her eyes and the special darkness of his kiss commanded her life and she wrapped a leg about him. Tipsy and full of need, she did not care what this devil’s name was for the moment.

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photo by f dot leonora

Last Day

I have given up coffee for a while for Lent. I have no desire to discuss religion, I am not even that religious. But I do have a spiritual side, that makes me give up coffee. Coffee is given up because I know I can, and because it is something that I remember I have given up every day. Thus my relationship with coffee is more than just reaching for a cup first thing in the morning, it is more layered and involved.

My mother actually used to give me coffee in the morning when I was a little girl. Mine had milk, and hers was black. I cannot drink black coffee even to this day it makes me jumpy. When I was a teenager, I drank it because the boy I had a crush on at the time did, coffee with milk–a lot of it–and sugar–a lot of it too. I stopped after I didn’t like the boy anymore. I picked it up again when I was in college, because boys always bought coffee for me when we would sit in the cafeteria to be philosophical like you think you are when you are in college.

I never made a decision to have a cup of coffee because I wanted it on my own, just had a desire for it until I was out of college. It was then I would end up in a cafe to have coffee. I liked it at that point large, with half and half and a ton of sugar. Once in a Starbucks, someone said I liked a little coffee with my cream and sugar. There is a dear cafe in Brooklyn called The Tea Lounge, that made Turkish lattes…I bow to that greatness. I drank coffee at this point more as not a social thing, but something I did while writing. Coffee meant my solitude.

The decision to give it up was made because I just felt like it seemed like something to give up, to build character. To say I can do this. I cannot remember really giving anything up when I was in Catholic school, but this decision was made as an adult and I have stuck to it. One torturous year, I was drinking coffee with multiple shots of espresso, lost track of Lent and had a headache for the whole of it. To be clear, I do not give up caffeine, just coffee and coffee-flavored things. But not even cups and cups of black tea could soothe the headache I had for the entire of Lent.

This year was not so bad, I was very disciplined. I am not a cheater, if I say I am not going to do something I don’t. I will not waver in my decision, I am very faithful…There have been some points where I just drank water because any thought of another tea or chai made me almost nauseous.

My chosen cup tomorrow, I have not decided yet. There will likely be two. Half and half has been replaced with soy milk–which I learned how to say in French during my last trip to Paris–and I might add a flavored syrup but no sugar. I like simple cafe au laits for the most point, no weird concoctions. Half the time I even choose decaf. I like the flavor of coffee, the mug or take-away cup held between my hands warm, the warm fluid savored on my tongue for its every nuance and its warming me inside as it goes down. In the summer, I can be prone to milky iced coffee if it is really hot, then I like its cool sensation best on my tongue.

Knowing I give up coffee for 46 days every year (it looks so little when I type it, but feels so big when I do it), makes every bit I have over the rest of the year feel precious and almost exotic. I will hopefully be sipping a cup tomorrow, and not even feel like I missed a day…

photo by f dot leonora

Wicked Wednesday Prompt #98 — "Hunger"

I guess I got attached to my characters from last week, because in the middle of trying to write something completely different this story came to me:

She had no idea Paris was rainy, everyone knew it except for her. This trip to Paris was her first, and by herself. Rafe was still in New York, unable to leave his job and join her.

Paris was more than she expected it would be but even so, she was hungry for more: of the city, of life or of something she could not define while studying her alleged grande cafe which had beads of honey on the edge of it from the spoonful she had put in it. Her heel knocked against the wooden leg of her chair.

“Your engagement ring is lovely, you must have quite a love story.”

Eliza looked at the man at the table next to hers, her heel stopped knocking.

“I do,” she said as she would say eventually with Rafe when they married.

Her foot tapped again on the wooden leg of her chair.

“Do you want to tell me?”

She shook her head, and stood up on the high heels that Rafe had encouraged her to be comfortable in.

“It’s a long story.”

His answer was lost in the rush of heat that overcame her, at the sight of the man walking toward the fountain across the street. Eliza put several euros on the table and walked outside in her trench coat. She looked down from both from the rain and not wanting to be seen.

What would she say to him, him to her? She did not know his name, only his body and scent. She had to abide by his rules–no guilt, no names and no questions–because she had none of his details. It felt suddenly as if her heart had moved from her chest to between her legs, she felt her labia twitch in response. The thumping there was so intense, she could barely walk but she did staggering far behind him. He did not seem to have a destination, so it was awkward for her to appear as if she was not following him.

She took a deep breath, and turned in the opposite direction.

The next few days were filled with meetings. Her heart had returned to its rightful place in her chest, and she had nonstop correspondence with Rafe.

After one meeting she saw Angelina, their notorious hot chocolate called to her from what she had read about in guidebooks. The chocolate would be a meal as well since she had not eaten. Waltzed into the grand dining room by the hostess, she immediately ordered a hot chocolate in French, and when the waitress walked away her heart dropped back down between her legs.

He was sitting diagonally across from her, there was no way he would not notice her. She looked down at her napkin until the word Angelina on it became a blur, as she studied it to not look at him. When her hot chocolate arrived, she looked up helplessly and he was staring at her. Only because he was looking at her, did she look back at him. If she had wanted to say anything, he silenced her by putting his fingers over his lips. The thumping increased between her legs, she could barely sit still.

Eliza dipped a spoon into the whipped cream next to her chocolate. She remained silent after a quick merci to her waitress who handed her more napkins. Using peripheral vision, she watched him sign his check and get up. She closed her eyes as she brought the chocolate to her mouth to savor the rich liquid. It was everything she imagined it would be: Paris, the chocolate, but she was empty.

When she opened her eyes, there was a hotel card on the table and she knew he had left it there. She wanted to jump up from her seat, and the reckless way she desired to she would have spilled her thick liquid chocolate all over her lap. Instead she pretended that she was savoring the chocolate that had become flavorless because she was so excited to follow him to the room number written on the card. She licked her upper lip for flavorless whipped cream and chocolate. When she paid her bill and got up, she felt as if she would black out from anticipation.

Relying heavily on the GPS app on her phone to get to the apparently nearby address, Eliza managed to find the hotel which was blocks away. He waited for her. Burping up a little bit of hot chocolate that she had sipped too quickly, she walked over to him. Nervously twisting her engagement ring, she stood in front of him. He took her hand and kissed her fingers, and almost the diamond of her ring.

She became lachrymose. It was not that she was sorry about what she was doing. She had never done anything like this until him, and she wanted to do it again. Wanted to touch him again, wanted him to kiss her again, wanted him to everything again. Her thighs tremored with the heavy thumping between her legs.

She had hungered for him, for what she had had with him in a dark hotel room ever since she had had it. Nothing had been the same since. Even with Rafe which was nice, but it was not this. Rafe fucked her like she was perfect, and she was not perfect.

She wanted to be fucked like an imperfect woman.

They got into the elevator together, Eliza studied his long fingers pressing the buttons for the floor they were going to. This hotel was not like the mirror-filled one where they had met, but she was happy. She did not want to see the lust on her face, just wanted to feel it thumping between her legs.

Inside the hotel room, he kissed her and she gnawed at his lower lip as if it were a meal. She wrapped one leg about him, and he kissed her neck. Offering more of her neck to him, she pressed her head to the wall as he pressed himself to her. And even as between her legs thumped harder with lust, she felt something quench within her.

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photo by f dot leonora

Sticky Notes No. 2

I have been very inspired this week, and very inspired today. This day in Twitter, there were several tweets about a woman walking a man on a leash in London, which became my singular fascination for the day. Was it that he was “smartly dressed?” Or that he was so obedient as she walked with her to-go coffee or tea? A media source said people did not dare suggest this was a BDSM scenario…

Having my pink sticky notes in my purse ever since I was inspired to by Being Blacksilk’s blog post a few weeks ago, I wrote my second very short story on the train which I am pretty sure I will expand at some point…

This is the sticky typed out:

it was almost his idea, but anything great that came from him was ultimately inspired by Her and he had no desire to take credit. it was a pleasant evening at home with her early summer so still bright. he saw the sun from her feet and when he looked up at Her the setting sun made Her look like the Madonna. she rubbed just under his chin, and he was soothed. she was happy with him and it was then he suggested that they go outside on his leash.

“Please Sir,” he asked her humbly.

photo by F Dot Leonora